As if He'd Been Galvanised, 'What', he Roared
by Clockwork Artichoke
Summary: If a tree falls in a forest, and nobody is around to hear it, can Sherlock Holmes crack the case? Probably.
1. A Fine Enough Place to Start

Sherlock Holmes sat in his flat. Stagnating.  
>It had been only a weeks since his last case, but already he could feel his mind slipping from its usual intricate, delicately-tuned precision, and becoming just so much soft cheese.<br>John was out buying groceries. Or a new table. Or something. He'd heard him leave, but that could have been hours ago. Months, even. He sluggishly turned on his television. _House_ was on. Sherlock sighed, and then went back to stagnating.

John Watson _had _intended to buy groceries, or a new table, or something, but had then realised that he had nothing to buy them with. There'd been an incident in the case before the last one involving the destruction of a bridge and a train full of stolen ferrets. He pinched the bridge of his nose just thinking about it.  
>Sherlock was likely still back at the flat. He probably knew John would have come here to the fountain, as he'd taken to doing when there was nothing else to do and Sherlock was in an... interesting mood. Actually, John found himself looking around in a fairly suspicious manner; Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and while there <em>was<em> a homeless man sat just across the street, he appeared to have dozed off. Besides, what would be the point in following him? If anything –  
>John felt his train of thought scream to a halt as he noticed a security camera doing that thing they sometimes did around him: turning away to ridiculous angles, and leaving him out of sight.<br>Really, Mycroft might as well have them wink at him.

Back in the flat, Sherlock hadn't moved. Eyes closed, he sat with an intent expression on his face, as though he were trying to summon a new case through sheer force of will. Something interesting, something he hadn't seen before, something even he couldn't solve. Well, maybe not that last one, but something exciting, anything at all, something bizarre, something unheard of, something to break him out of this damned boredom! If only for the sake of the walls.  
>Happily, with John in a black car on the other side of London, on his way to a warehouse of some sort, <em>something<em> was pretty much exactly what happened.

Sherlock Holmes yawned, and a zebra walked into the room.


	2. Zebra King

Sherlock Holmes stared at the zebra.

The zebra stared back at Sherlock Holmes.

This went on for some time.

John Watson had arrived at a conveniently abandoned warehouse, and after exchanging the usual with Mycroft about him owning a phone, and being contactable via phone, they got down to business and talked... well, business.

'He's been, you know, _bored_. It's getting to the point where I feel like I'm in the way,' said John, taking in the ambience of the room.

Mycroft smiled in that particular, slightly unpleasant way of his. 'Oh, don't you worry,' he said. 'We have some important work to be done, and I intend to keep him entertained. For now, at least.'

John frowned at this, but then decided pondering the quirks in Mycroft's discourse was an utter waste of time, time which could be better spent pondering the nature of reality, or making a collage out of macaroni, or_ leaving_.

Back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock had so far come up with 18 different possibilities as to why there was a zebra in his flat. There would have been a good deal more, but most were dampened somewhat by the zebra's surprising mastery of a door handle.

'**Hello**,' it said, in a bold-font sounding voice. '**I am the Zebra King.**'

The 18 possibilities were suddenly narrowed down to theory number six – namely '_I have gone mad_'. On the bright side, at least, it was probably better than sitting around watching the telly.

The Zebra King politely waited for a response. None seemed forthcoming, and Sherlock only stared at it with a scowl. The Zebra King was beginning to feel somewhat silly. Heaven forbid.

'**Um,**' said the Zebra King, and Sherlock noted that even his punctuation was in bold, '**I have a mystery I'd rather like you to have a go at solving...**'

Sherlock continued to stare, clearly suspicious of the zebra in his flat. For some reason. The Zebra King grinned sheepishly.

'Mrs. Hudson!' roared Sherlock. He and the Zebra King waited patiently for a minute or so. 'Mrs. Hud – ah, there you are. Tell me, Mrs. Hudson, is there anything in this room that strikes you as odd?' asked Sherlock, with a polite smile on his face.

Mrs. Hudson's mouth dropped open, but she rallied, regained her composure, and merely said 'Do clean up after it, please,' before shaking her head and walking away.

So, Sherlock wasn't insane. But he _was_ interested.


	3. The Plight of the Zebra King

John Watson returned to 221B Baker Street to find Sherlock sat, clearly quite relaxed, having a cup of tea with a medium-sized zebra. The zebra in question was sat on the floor, holding the cup between its hooves. They turned to look at him. The zebra took a sip.

Sherlock quickly put his cup down on the table and started after John, who'd turned on his heels and immediately set off back out, staring at the ceiling.  
>'Wait! John! There's a perfectly logical reason there's a zebra in our flat.'<br>John turned to face him, and shot him a questioning look. 'Go on then?'  
>'Well,' said Sherlock, looking down almost bashfully. 'He has a case for us.'<br>'Right, that's it,' sighed John, exasperated. 'You need help.'  
>Sherlock cut in front of him as he made to leave again. 'John,' he breathed. 'I think you're underestimating the plight of the Zebra King.'<p>

Once he'd persuaded John to go back to the flat, Sherlock quickly resumed his position from earlier. The zebra hadn't moved, it seemed. John stood in the corner, warily. The zebra gave him a polite smile. He returned it, a look of horror spreading across his face when he realised.

'Okay, why don't you run through your predicament again for my partner here?'  
>'<strong>Er, your... partner?<strong>' asked the Zebra King, somehow smirking despite being, well, a zebra.  
>'Oh, for -' John began.<br>'He helps me think,' stated Sherlock. It was a statement, stated as such, as would be expected from a statement that was only a statement, but stated in a way that spelled out, in four words, that that was the end of it, that there wasn't any subtext, and that John helped Sherlock think.  
>Besides, he was talking to a zebra.<p>

John wondered if Sherlock had put as much thought into his rebuttal as he was reading. That said, Sherlock probably put this much thought into how much butter was on John's toast in the morning.  
>'<strong>Do you want me to go back through it from the very start, then?<strong>' asked the Zebra King.  
>'Please.'<br>John thought it was time for a brief intervention. 'Could you, I don't know, maybe not speak quite as... loud?'  
>The Zebra King looked hurt for a moment, but then he was a zebra, and Sherlock had already thought of over 400 puns involving long faces.<p> 


End file.
